Where we make our home
by drjohnhwatson
Summary: John remembers everything. Every, single, tiny, little detail of Sherlock. Most of all he just remembers the feeling of finally being home. Post Reichenbach.


It is a quarter to seven in the morning and someone is sighing. John Watson has had a sleepless night. His entire body feels tired, weary, like he's been through a storm. Oh, if he had.  
>It has been eleven hours since the fall. He can't call it anything else. There aren't words.<br>People try to find them of course. They offer words that John doesn't know the meaning of anymore. Maybe they are supposed to be comforting, mostly they are just words.  
>He rubs his face with his hands, rubbing at his itchy eyes. The first sight of the sun through the buildings is visible. The sky may as well stay grey.<br>People are still walking in the street. It makes him irrationally angry. People are still doing normal things whilst he is stood, at seven in the morning, looking out of the window at the sunrise, not hearing the voice, the low, velvet monotone he usually hears at this time. Someone is not here and no one else seems to care. Someone _important_. Someone John _cares_ for.  
>It wasn't supposed to go like this. He was supposed to catch Moriarty, and then he was supposed to hand him to the Police, and he was supposed to smile at John and say "We got him," and John was supposed to smile back and clap him on the back and they were supposed to get a cab home, home to 221B Baker Street, with its safe walls (one with a smiley face on), with its kitchen full of experiments, a fridge full of thumbs and he and Sherlock were supposed to fall asleep in the armchairs.<br>**Sherlock**.  
>John breathes, a choked sob held too long rattling in his lungs. His eyes water.<br>There will be no more experiments, no more thumbs in the fridge. There will be no more violin concerts at silly hours of the morning. There will be no more crime scenes via wifi, no more crime scenes at all. There will be no more dark hair, pale skin, grey eyes, blue scarf or long, dark coat. No.  
>He wants to scream at the injustice of it all. Wants to scream his name into the street. Wants to make people <em>see<em>. See the Sherlock Holmes he saw every day.  
>He can remember every single little detail of Sherlock. The quirk of his mouth, the frown when John was being stupid, the way his hands steepled at his chin when he was deducing. The way they waved when he was explaining something. His enthusiasm for everything, like a small child with new toys, out on a new adventure. He can remember his eyes. Grey, cold, almost. The way they looked at John, like they were looking right through him. Something that would make ordinary people shiver.<br>He misses everything. Every, _single_ thing. The guns, the bullet holes in the wall, the violin, being awake at stupid hours, not getting any sleep on a case, the people they met, Sherlock hacking his laptop, Sherlock stealing his things, his sarcasm, the way he called him an idiot, the cheekbones and putting up with Sherlock, just putting up with him. Not being able to just live with him anymore kills him inside. Makes his nervous system jump and makes him twitch, makes him panic.  
><strong>Sherlock<strong>, _Sherlock_, Sherlock.  
>What can he do without Sherlock?<br>He is no one without Sherlock. He's just John Watson. Just John. Everyone they knew, everyone they met, they knew because of him, because of Sherlock.  
>John can't breathe. Christmas flashes in his mind. Sherlock opening presents, Sherlock playing the violin, kissing Molly and thanking her for the present. He grips the windowsill, presses his fist into his eye to try and stop the tears.<br>Part of him wants to hate Sherlock for leaving him. He can't do it.  
>He just wants him to stop. Stop being gone. Wants him to walk through the door smiling, or scowling, or even covered in sodding blood, just anything, <em><strong>anything<strong>_ for him to walk through the door. He wants him to walk in and say "I'm sorry John, I'm so sorry," and then John can fix him, fix the blood or the pain or anything, he knows he can fix it because it's Sherlock. He **has** to fix Sherlock.  
>The sun is almost up now. It makes everything glitter and appear gold. Everything is red and orange.<br>John gasps.  
>He looks down at the scarf in his hands. The blue scarf that he wouldn't let them take. The scarf that he clutched until his knuckles were white.<br>He looks back up, out of the window of 221B Baker Street, which doesn't feel like a home anymore, at the sun, at the red and orange glow on the roofs, and breathes out slowly.  
>He goes to the door, half closes it, hangs the scarf on the peg where Sherlock always used to hang it, and pats it affectionately.<br>"Thanks. Thankyou. Hopefully see you soon, mate."  
>He steps back, looks at it, and nods. Walks the flat one last time. Sees Sherlock sitting in his armchair, sees him playing the violin at the window, sees him sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, peering into his microscope. Sees him excited, sees him happy, enthusiastic, sees him climbing on tables and hacking into his laptop. Sees him talking to the skull. Sees him on the sofa watching crap television. Sees him sad, when he doesn't reckon John is watching. John always watches.<br>He steps into the doorway, looks at the light filtering through the window, the dust in the air. The flat is quiet, sad, empty. The sound of John breathing is the only sound.  
>He breathes out.<br>"Bye, mate."  
>His voice echoes almost.<br>He swears he can almost hear a grunt in response.  
>He stops, smiles, pats the door, closes it.<br>"See you later, Sherlock," he calls, as if the man is there, and, remembering the scarf, he realises that a part of him always will be. He can visit anytime he wants. He believes in Sherlock Holmes, and he always will.


End file.
